


All May Choose to Fight

by JENderQueer



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Eventual Smut, F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-01-31 17:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21450205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JENderQueer/pseuds/JENderQueer
Summary: The Inquisitor uses what she learned at the Elven Mountain Ruins to convince the Dread Wolf to take her with him.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Inquisitor, Mage Inquisitor/Solas
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be smut but not yet, despite Lavellan's best efforts.
> 
> I am multishipping trash and I must Romance All The Options, but this is my personal canon for the elf mage I built for the Solasmance - by the point of Trespasser, our girl is barely holding together and one more heartbreak may shatter her. Which is just the worst time to run into your ex.

"Fen'Harel!"

He hesitates. Tearing himself from her is always hard.

"You took my vallaslin!"

With the taste of her lips still on his, he remembers the last time he kissed her and left her weeping. He doesn't dare turn around.

"If I am free, then I am free to choose!"

He holds his breath. He knows she's standing now, coming closer; slowly, like approaching a startled halla, not a dread wolf.

"The brand of the Evanuris can be lifted from you, that all may know you oppose their cruelties. None here are slaves. All are under our protection. All may choose to fight."

His eyes close. Her hand touches his shoulder, light and tentative, barely making contact with his armour, yet he feels it like a brand but cannot pull away.

"I choose to fight..." Her voice - scarcely above a whisper - breaks. She takes a breath. "I choose to fight for you."

He is lost.

* * *

In an instant he turns, his arms around her, crushing her to his chest, his lips crashing fiercely against hers. She wraps her arm around his neck; the other now hangs heavy and useless by her side, she barely registers when it begins to crumble into dust. And it doesn't matter because he's taken the pain and the Anchor and he's _holding_ her again and he's **kissing** her and she's free and she's _free_ and she's **free **and she's **_free_**. This is what Crestwood should have been, could never be. Oh but she's free. Free of the Inquisition that was thrust upon and is being ripped from her after taking so much. Free of the marks of the ancient elvhen on her face and hand, the chains that bound her to their service and their power ("_not_ _entirely_" the Well whispers._ Close enough_). Free to love him and be loved by him as he had denied her - denied them both - for so long.  
They cling to each other, knuckles white, eyes shut, lips pressed in a desperate kiss, brows furrowed with feeling. He breaks it first, only to pepper kisses along her jaw, her temples, her forehead, her nose. He pours his love and pain and joy and regret into those kisses. Not lust; he had desired her, yes, but that was always secondary (_tertiary?_) to the war between his Heart and his Duty.  
Breathing in ragged gasps now, chests heaving with emotion, they rest their foreheads against each other; neither daring to open their eyes for fear even as hands grasp and ground, assuring that this is real. _ This is _ ** _ real_**.

Solas speaks first, his voice raw. His heart in his throat. His vhenan in his arms.  
"What of the Inquisition?" He hates himself for asking. He couldn't bear for her to leave him now, after their mutual surrender.  
"You know why I was at Halamshiral. Let the Council have it. At least this end is my choosing."  
His heart clenches.  
"And your companions?"  
She sighs and shifts her face to the crook of his neck. She takes a steadying breath and breathes him in. He is trembling yet somehow solid and **real**.  
"Cole is with them."  
"Shall I-?"  
"I can."  
He cradles her head and nods, no longer trusting his voice. 

She focuses on the spirit she had come to love as purely as his own nature. She pours her sorrow into it, calling to Compassion. She thinks of her friendships forged in fire and fear, how they soothed and supported her, how she's loved them, how she's missed them. She thinks of how she thrown so much of herself into the Inquisition that she feared how little would be left when the Council took it away from her, how she'd have had nothing else - knowing that while she loves her people she could never go back to them, changed as she is. She lets her love and grief and relief flow through her connection to him, and finally conjures an image of herself laying down the sword presented when naming her Inquisitor. 

Suddenly she feels a weight lift in her chest, almost imperceptible but **there**. _ Thank you, lethallin_. Her remaining fist clenches into the pelt draped over her beloved's armour as tears begin to fall anew. These tears aren't like the ones she'd shed after Redcliffe or the Nightmare in the Fade, but he still whispers his Elvhen lullabies as he holds her.  
Finally she calms and begins to pull away.  
His eyes snap open and for a moment panic grips him (_don't go!_), thinking the exchange with Cole has changed her mind and she means to leave him after all; but her body still presses against his, her fingers still tangle in the fur. Reluctantly, he forces his arms to relax their hold. She looks up at him through wet lashes and hesitantly raises her hand to his cheek. He leans into her touch, eyes fluttering momentarily before locking back on hers.  
"Solas…?"  
Her voice is barely a whisper but she says his name with such love and hope and fear that it stills the war raging within him even now. He cannot leave her again, cannot send her away. She had invoked the choice to fight as promised in his sanctuary millennia ago, and he was honour bound to accept. She had heard what he had done, what he planned, she knew he was a monster and still she loved him. And, he realises, thrice he had turned from her and thrice she had pursued… _ She really does change everything_.  
"Vhenan…" he replies, his own voice brimming with love and wonder.

He gently brushes the tears from her face, then smooths her hair. He begins to tenderly fuss with her appearance. In his own way he'd been as fastidious as Dorian while she'd known him, although the results were very different. Still, even her Tevinter peacock best friend had admitted that few could pull off quite so much beige with such quiet confidence, before immediately teasing her for wanting to be the one to pull it off him. His new look had shocked her - such a contrast from the mask of the unobtrusive elven apostate he had worn during their time together - but she could not deny the jolt of lust that had shot through her, as overpowering and unmistakable as any of the Anchor's pulses. She had pushed her desire away, as she'd had to so many times during their all-too-brief (_all-too-chaste_) relationship, there were more pressing matters. But now that she has a moment to appreciate his new (_old?_) aesthetic, she drinks him in. His armour is akin to that of the ancient elvhen they had encountered at the Vir'abelasan, yet somehow _ more_. The carefully arranged wolf pelt adds to the air of authority, a reminder of who he is - as the jawbone charm he'd worn as Solas must have been for those who'd known. He looks like a general, the leader their people need. _ And he looks _ ** _good_**. Dorian would be sick with envy… Her eyes widen. _ Dorian! _

His face contorts with sorrow as he tends to the loose armour around the ruins of her left arm. He carefully cuts away some of the excess before inspecting the results of his spell. He presses healing magic into the stump as he removes what's left of the petrification. The skin that replaces the remnants of rock is soft and angry, pink as boiled nug, but it will _ heal _, whole and healthy. She barely flinches, lost in looking. Pride preens internally. He finishes adjusting her armour for her new armlessness, then gently tilts her chin up and places a light kiss on her cheek before moving to step back. 

"Wait!" She catches his arm. "There's… something else. Something you should know. Should have. I don't want you to think…"  
She hesitates before letting her hand rest on her pack. She fumbles with the fastenings before shooting him a pleading look. As he releases them, he becomes aware of a tinny buzzing. She plunges her arm into the bag and pulls out a locket, flicking it open to unleash a tirade of angry Tevene and the telltale crackle of mana build up from too many spells cast too frequently in a small area. _ How much lyrium has he drank in the time I've been gone? _  
"-N'T DO THIS! FASTA VASS! DO YOU HEAR ME, LAVELLAN?! BULL AND I ARE COMING, JUST STAY WHERE Y- **WHAT ** ** _IS_ ** ** IT, COLE** ?!"  
She takes advantage of the momentary pause - Cole's intention, most likely.  
"Dorian." Her voice is flat, emotionless, though Solas can see her sorrow in how she sags at the Tevinter's voice.  
"Lavellan! Thank the Maker! Are you alright? Cole said-"  
"I'm fine, falon. I'm with-"  
"Solas." She winces at the coldness in her friend's voice. "Yes. Cole said. Forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I don't think being trapped alone with the man we've just discovered is the Dread Wolf," ice gives way to venom, "**Bringer of Nightmares**, falls under the definition of _ fine_."  
"_Dorian_," she pleads. "You know I haven't really been _ fine _ in a long time. This Exalted Council… I gave the Inquisition _ everything _ and they're taking it from me."  
"You still have _ us_!"  
"You're _ leaving_. I don't begrudge it, not of any of you… maybe Vivienne." There's a reluctant snort.  
"Least we know it's really her, kadan" Bull rumbles.  
"When Solas-"  
"**Fen**. **Harel**."  
"Yes. That too. When I saw him… When he came back into my life… I-I can't lose him again, Dorian. I _ can't_. It will kill me. You saw me when… after Corypheus. This, now, it would be so much worse…"  
" … I assume he can hear me, yes?"

She doesn't dare try to meet his eyes as she offers him the sending crystal. He's grateful, unsure if he can hide the guilt and pain at her words. He'd known how his abandonment had affected her. He had his spies in the Inquisition, and every one of his agents knew that any report of the Inquisitor was to be sent to him immediately. If his rejection at Crestwood had turned her into a shadow, leaving had turned her into a ghost. At first she had mostly slept; sullen and unresponsive in waking, feverish and intent in dreaming. She had sought to find him in the Fade, and for a time she was relentless there. He had watched, careful to stay out of reach, out of sight. He had guarded her from the demons drawn to her pain - despair, rage, desire, fear… His Anchor made her a beacon but his loss had made her a feast. Eventually her fever turned chill and she had left her room - to the great relief of her friends - and declared herself ready to return to work. She had thrown herself into the role of Inquisitor, and lost herself in it. Her personality, her wit and charm, that spark which had drawn them all so closely to her… it was all but gone. And without that tether, her companions had drifted away one by one. Part of him damns them for leaving her when she needed them, just as part of him damns himself, but he knows it must have been hard to watch. She had drawn a Veil up within herself, and he understood the urge to turn away from the pale imitation of everything you loved.  
Hearing the admission from her own lips hurt so much more than simply knowing.

"I am here."  
"You're a bastard." Dorian's tone is even, matter-of-fact. "If you hurt her again, Cole will know-"  
"Yes," the spirit confirms.  
"And he will tell us."  
"Yes."  
"And," the Iron Bull growls, "we will find you."  
"I believe you." The elvhen mage finally raises his eyes from the crystal to her face. "I believe… I would let you."  
Silence.  
"He's telling the truth," says the voice of Compassion.  
"I see… Keep the sending crystal then. I know you likely won't let her have it, or even use it, but if anything happens, if you can't _ protect _ her, if she **needs** us…"  
"You have my word."  
There's another pause before Cole's confirmation.  
"I shall… let you say goodbye."  
"Ah, so you _ do _ know what that word means."  
Solas sighs, biting back a response. The barb is not undeserved. He hands back the locket.  
"Dorian. Make sure the Council knows. As much as it hurt, I always thought Mother Giselle was right." She imagines his sneer of protest at the Revered Mother's name. "I went to the Winter Palace to ensure our actions and promises would be honoured, then put our swords away. Don't let Orlais get their hands on the Inquisition. Make sure Josie knows, me being gone doesn't change that. Promise me?"  
"Or what, you'll come back and yell at us?"  
"Dorian, _ please? _ "  
A sigh. "As my lady wishes."  
"_Thank you_." Relief washes over her. She trusted that Cole would relay her _ message _ but he lacked force of personality and literal presence should anyone fight it, while her best friend had an abundance of both was apparently developing a taste for yelling at power-hungry politicians. Plus there was always the possibility that some elements_ (Vivienne_) would insist this all the manipulations of a demon. Yes, it's better that he help them understand in his subtle way while Dorian and Bull help them understand _ overtly. _  
"I… For what it's worth, I am sorry."  
"I know, my friend. You have a soft heart and a libido that makes poor choices."  
She snorts.  
"I love you."  
"Naturally."  
"No. Really. I love you. All of you. Never forget that."  
"We're your favourites though, right Boss?"  
"_Obviously_. What better way to end my time as Inquisitor than saving Thedas again with _ you _ by my side?"  
"And be reunited with your lost love?"  
"And there was even a _ dragon_."  
"Never change, Bull."  
"Or you could. I have some notes."  
"Nor you, Dorian. And Cole…"  
"I know. I will. Soon."

She weeps silently as they utter their last goodbyes. Eventually - and after another warning of "take care of our girl, Sol- Fen- whatever you are" - she closes her fist over the locket, clutching it to her chest, breathing hard. As she steadies herself, he feels them begin to make their way back through the eluvian network. When she is ready, she holds out the crystal in offering. He takes it hesitantly.  
"You… didn't tell them?"  
She sighs. "If anyone deserves a few years of relative peace, it's them. Besides, them fighting us would only get in the way of finding a way to save them."  
"Is that why you're joining me?"  
"It's… a hope? I'd like to research alternatives, if you'd allow it? But honestly?" She shakes her head. "I'm selfish and I cannot lose you again. And… even though I intended to disband the Inquisition… This whole Exalted Council business, all the posturing and politicking and weaseling? It's made me so… **angry**. They're all so intent upon what _ they _ want, about how _ they _ see the Inquisition, and where they can lay _ blame_. They never even asked me what _ I _ had planned to do. Only Mother Giselle even _ thought _ of it. And there... there's a part of me that thinks… they deserve to burn."  
She goes deathly still. Not daring to breathe. He watches her, two living statues before a garden of stone.  
"I hope," her voice is small, fragile, vulnerable, "you don't think less of me for it…?"  
"Actually I was thinking that you reminded me of a conversation millennia ago. How strange to hear it now from your lips."  
He cups her cheek and brushes his thumb over those lips. She leans in to the touch.

"I have a question."  
"You may ask. I have always enjoyed your curiosity, even when I could not be as honest in my answers as I wished. As you deserved."  
"What… do I call you?"  
"Ah." He nods. "To most I am the Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel. As you know from your own experience, my close generals and advisors may use title or name depending upon context and would know me as either should you speak with them. As for when we are alone," his voice lowers, more tender, "I had hoped you might still prefer endearments, vhenan…?"  
She blushes, but cannot resist the chance to tease him as she used to.  
"Even when I moan…?"  
She's reassured and gratified by that familiar flash of lust as his eyes widen. Less so by the equally familiar sight of him bringing it swiftly to heel, but it was more than she'd dared to hope for in the years since their parting.  
"Well, then, I think you should do whatever feels good…"  
He watches her breath hitch then quicken at the implication. Her attempts to provoke him like this had always amused him because she was invariably more affected by him teasing in return. Which wasn't to say that he wasn't affected. On the contrary, he'd found her very… affecting. He thrills at the thought that he may not have to restrain himself so tightly in future, and if his grin turns a little wolfish as she blushes and bites her lip under his gaze, well… At least now she knows what it is she courts.

_ Ah yes. Courts_.

He takes an appraising look over her. She looks older than she had before the mantles of Herald and Inquisitor. Despite her flirtations, she still wears her vulnerability on her sleeve now, but he knows it's not something many see; even among her inner circle he knows she'd always presented a somewhat edited version of herself, he doubts anyone but Cole knew the side she shows now. These moments of naked honesty were only ever for him. _ Perhaps because they're prompted by pain and loss? **My fault**_. His heart swells once more and he's filled with the need to hold her again, but he resists. Instead, he replaces his mask. If she is to choose this there are things she must understand. He has a role to play and if she is to be by his side he has to prepare her for what that means. For both their sakes.

"If you are to leave here with me," she opens her mouth in protest but he cuts her off quickly, "there will be certain expectations and requirements. Many in the same vein as those you have encountered as Inquisitor, though the rules are somewhat different. Nothing beyond your capabilities - aside perhaps from a necessary period of… inactivity."  
He chuckles quietly as her mouth twists in distaste. She had gone from the nomadic life of the Dalish to running around Thedas sealing rifts and bringing some order to the chaos Corypheus revelled in; she was far from accustomed to a sedentary lifestyle. And she had never liked sitting on her hands (_hand_) when there was work to be done.  
"I know you can't just trust that I'm leaving the Inquisition and make me an agent, ma lath. It's alright, I don't expect to be involved in anything of consequence. I can clean, cook…"  
He smiles fondly and shakes his head.  
"The consort of the Dread Wolf cannot be a scullery maid and _ I _ cannot have anyone think of you as less than you are."  
She blushes. Politics hadn't come easy to her and she had relied heavily on Josephine's guidance as well as his; the idea that she won't be free of that particular mire even after resigning as Inquisitor is not a pleasant one. She sighs and nods, trusting in his wisdom and experience to help her through as she once had without question.  
"May I… use it for research?"  
"I'll have relevant tomes sent to you. Perhaps you will see something I missed." Sorrow and a little hope (_she _ ** _does_ ** _ change things…) _ creeps into his voice. He clears his throat. "Some time in… relative isolation will allow me to prepare you for the intricacies of an Elvhen court, in addition to the scrutiny of being a companion rather than a commander."  
"Relative isolation?" She smiles wryly. "You _ mean _ I'll be your prisoner."  
"You'll be afforded every comfort. Your position alone demands that. And your defection… it cannot be taken on faith, no matter my feelings," ** _because of_ ** _ my feelings_, "there must be time to evaluate-"  
"So a gilded cage then?" She cuts him off but her voice is light, teasing. Then drops low, full of suggestion. "Will there still be chains?"  
His eyes widen. The thought of taking advantage of his _actual **prisoner**_ in such a way is abhorrent to the rebel god. But the thought of her _ asking _ him to take her like that is… too appealing for comfort. He responds to her playful grin with an exasperated smile that quickly turns flirtatious, even as he curses himself for her ability to affect him despite all his years.  
"Only if you ask, vhenan." _ How easily she makes a boy of me. _  
Her grin widens, surprised and pleased. _ How swiftly we resume this dance_, _<strike> perhaps this time we can continue to the next movement </strike>_ . He growls internally, tightening his own leash. _Not **yet**_.  
"In addition, I must ask you not to question me when we have an audience. I will hear any concerns you have when we are alone, but you cannot be seen to undermine me - for your own sake, not just my authority. Rumours that you have undue influence over me are inevitable," _ and true_, "and we must take care not to fuel them."  
"Wait. You can _ ask _ your companions not to question you? When was that an option? Why didn't you tell me that was an option?"  
"And risk you denying yourself of my counsel?"  
He sees the mirth in her eyes as she visibly bites back another playful jibe. Instead she inclines her head in diplomatic agreement as she has with so many shemlen nobles.  
"May I make suggestions? Or requests? Not to contradict, just… potential additions?"  
"Sparingly, vhenan, and carefully. At least at first. You will be watched, scrutinised, as will my responses to you."  
"I didn't realise being close to a powerful leader came with so many restrictions and considerations."  
"I had hoped you never would."  
"Truly?"  
"This… was not the end I envisioned for us, ma vhenan'ara."  
"This is not an end."  
He smiles tenderly. Grateful for her strength, her certainty. Marvelling. She is both the mortal child who bewitched a god, and a goddess in her own right. _ Herald of Andraste, indeed. _

He steps away once more only to bow and offer his hand like the last time they had been at the Winter Palace together. She draws herself up, takes a breath, and slips her hand into his. Masks in place but for serene smiles and warmth-filled eyes fixed on each other, they step through the grand eluvian, ready to begin the Dance anew, each bolstered by the presence of their partner. Behind them, the mirror goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have A Lot of headcanon about formal Elvhen society and rules that might not fit your own or may be contradicted by lore I've somehow missed or forgotten and almost definitely by whatever is yet to be revealed. But it seems clear to me that Solas was so comfortable with the Winter Palace and the Game because Orlesians are amateurs compared to the machinations of the Elvhen.  
I love the idea of an essentially immortal race having refusal and pursuit built into their official courting customs to differentiate more serious attempts at bonding from flings for reasons of clarity and basically having the time to kill lbh. For reasons of magic and storytelling, I adore the rule of three and it will likely be peppered liberally throughout this fic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gilded cage.

Abelas is the first to react to their arrival, his eyes lighting up with recognition and… respect? He's wary, of course, but she had thought she'd gained some grudging respect from the elvhen guardian at the Vir'abelasan; it's nice to see that some of it seems to have remained. _ At least one person here doesn't hate me on principle _.

"Fen'Harel." He bows low.

"Rise, falon. We will speak soon. First, we have a guest." The Dread Wolf squeezes her fingers gently as he presents his captive. "The _ former _ Inquisitor shall be with us for some time. Please ensure that her stay is a comfortable one."

"The tower, lord?"

"That will do nicely."

"It shall be done." Orders are given and a messenger flees to have the arrangements made.

"Excellent. In the meantime she is to be searched, disarmed," - (_ did he really just…? _) she bites the inside of her cheeks to restrain her laughter - "and her possessions examined."

He guides her towards a pair of sentinels and she allows them to remove her staff, pack, and assorted accessories. The pat-down she expects never comes, instead she is surrounded by a wave of mana surging over her then gone in an instant. Her love nods his approval and turns his attention to an attendant, sending for food and wine to be sent to her new accommodations.

"A request, my lord?" She lowers her eyes respectfully as he considers her.

"You may ask."

"Magebane. I would take a draught as soon as possible to assuage any concerns of my danger or intent."

She sees the glow of pride in his eyes, can almost hear his _ 'well played, vhenan.' _

"A wise suggestion, Lady Lavellan." He dismisses the servant with a firm but not unkind "see to it."

He offers her his hand, as though she were indeed an honoured guest, and sweeps her out of the hall. Abelas falls into step as the guards who had relieved her of her belongings shadow them. Fen'Harel and the elf who is clearly his second begin to talk in Elvhen as they walk, and while she could tap into the Well to let her eavesdrop she chooses to pay her attention to her surroundings. The day had been filled with more unspoiled examples of the architecture of Elvhen'an than she had ever hoped to see outside of the Fade and she finds herself voracious. She wishes to study every mosaic, every fresco (_ did he paint this too? _). But she is lead along and so contents herself to stare in open appreciation.

As they ascend what she assumes is _ the tower _ , she has fewer sights to distract her but ( _ void take me, that's a lot of stairs _ ) she finds engagement enough in maintaining her composure throughout the climb and wondering how these ancient elves were still able to carry out a conversation. She's by no means unfit, it's just **a lot** of stairs. Eventually ( _ finally! _) the steps come to an end. She finds herself on a landing with three doors. Abelas pulls open the centre, and ushers her through. Of her escort, only the guards remain outside.

The room inside is bright and airy, suited more to the chambers of an Orlesian noble than a prison. The bed is large and luscious, dressed in thick pelts and canopied with streams of gossamer. Like her room at Skyhold, the bed is flanked by doors; one revealing an actual privy, the other containing a wardrobe already hung with delicate dresses of breathtaking beauty. One corner of the room is dominated by a deep bathing pool half sunken into the floor, fragrant steam rises from the tub and fills the air with the scent of sweet spices she can't place. Beside it sits a dressing table larger than Cullen's desk, upon which lie the previously ordered refreshments - she drains the cup of laced wine as she had promised, feeling the mana spring within her run dry. Mounted above the table is a mirror almost as wide and twice as tall, reflecting the light pouring through the equally expansive window opposite. She catches her beloved's eyes in the looking glass as she gazes in wonder (_ if this is a _ ** _cage_ ** _ in Elvhen'an, what must a _ ** _bedroom_ ** _ be like? What is _ ** _his_ ** _ \- _), sees the strange mix of love, pride, and sorrow on his face before he swiftly chases it away and clears his throat.

"I hope everything is to your satisfaction. Should you need anything you may make your requests of the guards or the attendants assigned to you, they will bring them directly to Abelas or myself."

Her eyes travel to the still-branded elf, who nods impassively.

"Under the circumstances, he has… requested to be your handler, since I cannot."

She turns back to Solas, unable to prevent the flash of disappointment that momentarily clouds her face. She's even less capable of controlling her surprise as steps closer and cups her cheek in his hand.

"I know, vhenan. But I will still visit, and teach you how to navigate our formalities as I promised. This is… simply one of them." When she nods her understanding, he brings his face close to hers, his eyes burning with an intensity that steals her breath. "**You must not lie to him**, vhenan. This is important. I cannot protect you if-" he kisses her, pulling her flush against him. She can taste his fear in that kiss.

The guardian clears his throat. This kiss ends but she is not released, one arm around her waist and another hand in her hair. Eyes still ablaze.

"Fen'Harel…" there is a warning in that voice.

Slowly, reluctantly, her love pulls away. _ At least I know I don't have to dance around our relationship with my interrogator _.

Abelas steps forward, taking his appointed role. He explains the rules of her position, the consequences of deception, how only he and Solas are permitted to speak with her, that her attendants will see to her needs in silence but report to them anything she says. She nods her understanding and acceptance while he speaks patiently and clearly as if to a child. _ I suppose I _ ** _am_ ** _ a child to him. _ When he is finished, he asks if she had questions.

"How often will one of you visit?"

"At least once a week, perhaps more should the need-"

"-or desire-"

The dour-faced sentinel shoots a disapproving look at the elvhen god, "... arise."

_ Reassuring to know that leaders pissing off their inner circles isn't just a **me** thing. _

"I understand that you're accustomed to greater time frames but for me a week is-"

"Sufficient. You shall have studies to occupy you, as the Dread Wolf commands."

"I… see. What of the magebane?"

"An unnecessary but… appreciated gesture. Especially so unprompted. This tower was built to contain far greater-" now it's his turn to receive a reproving glare from an ancient elf, "… powers than those you possess, my lady. More magebane shall only be administered if we require you to leave for any reason."

"As you're the only people I may interact with, would either of you - or both - play correspondence chess with me? Perhaps a move each a day, since ravens aren't required? And if so, may I have a chess set for our games? I took some comfort from my games with the- oh… Alistair… I suppose now he'll finally win one, if only by forfeit…"

Solas captures her hand in his. "It would be my pleasure, vhenan."

"An agreeable proposal. I shall arrange it."

She brightens visibly, having wilted somewhat at the prospect of only weekly interactions. _ Well it's _ ** _ something_ **.

"If you have no more questions: I suggest you eat, bathe, change, and rest. No doubt recent events have been taxing. When the draught wears off, I'm sure my lord will find you in the dreaming. But now we must depart. An attendant shall be sent along shortly."

Her love kisses her tenderly.

"You'll be back?"

"As often as I can, and every time I dream. Ar lath ma, vhenan"

She brings his hand - fingers still intertwined with hers - to her lips and presses a reverent kiss to his knuckles. "Emma sa'lath."

She slumps heavily onto the bed once the door closes behind them.

* * *

_ "{You are an undeserving _ ** _fool_ ** _ .}" _

_ "{I am aware.}" _

_ "{How could Mythal's wisdom reside in you?}" _

_ "{Have you considered another name yet, friend? Perhaps Tel'enaste?}" _

_ "{I'm glad to see you're feeling your old self(!)}" _

_ "{You see? It fits you so well.}" _

_ "{For a moment I had thought you'd be more focused with her by your side but no. You're a moon-eyed idiot grinning at the attention of a child.}" _

_ "{Only with my dearest companions, my friend.}" _

Abelas scoffs.

Solas sighs.

_"{You spoke with her at the Vir'abelasan. You've seen the reports. She is a worthy ally of great wisdom and compassion. A fierce warrior, an ena'sal'in'amelan of skill and courage. With the right guidance she would make a fine queen.}"_

_"{It's not the **queen** I doubt.}"_

_"{How much sorrow and bloodshed could have been avoided had Elgar'nan simply loved Mythal?}"_

Silence.

_"{Do not judge me too harshly, friend. I am giddy with relief and fear and most especially with love, but I remain unmoved from our goal. One may celebrate a triumph before returning to work.}"_

_"{We shall see.}"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those times when Solas is a snarky little bitch (especially when he out-snarks Dorian) were always A Delight for me so I had to include a Disapproving Abelas & Snarky Solas exchange.
> 
> Tel'enaste - Disdain, lit. without approval  
ena'sal'in'amelan - Arcane Warrior, Knight Enchanter


	3. Chapter 3

She allows herself to be attended. Gently but insistently stripped, bathed, her hair washed and treated with sweet oils that make her yawn, her wounds and stump cleaned and dressed with featherlight touches. Her armour is replaced by what she assumes is a nightdress but feels like a whisper against her skin and wouldn't have looked out of place on Vivienne in one of her salons. She is mutely but firmly encouraged to eat and, taking a bite, finds herself ravenous. More wine is brought, sweet and undoctored, she sips it on the bed while her hair is brushed and loosely braided. It isn't long until her eyes start to droop and she falls into a dreamless sleep.

She awakes alone to discover a new addition to her room (_prison_): a large tome with a note in an unfamiliar, elegant hand. The note simply reads "we shall start here." The book would have made every Keeper at the Arlathvhen weep. Not only does it contain the language of the Elvhen, all but lost to the Dalish, it was _ about the language of the Elvhen_. She strokes the cover reverently, her mouth watering at the thought of reclaiming the lost tongue of her people. Of course the Well _ could _ translate for her but drawing from it is… disquieting. The former First bends eagerly to her studies. 

* * *

_ "{Language?}" _

_ "{She should learn.}" _

_ "{I don't disagree but there are spells-}" _

_ "{And she will be given that choice. But watch how happy it will make her, puzzling out each translation. This is an opportunity for you, my friend - did you not appoint yourself the task of learning all you could from the erstwhile Inquisitor?}" _

* * *

The Dread Wolf did indeed return to his work. He fully briefs Abelas while they eat refreshments brought to them, then together they go over the latest reports. There are meetings, information sifted through, plans strategised, orders issued. When there are fewer pressing and more tedious matters to attend to, they make arrangements regarding their new guest (_captive_) before turning back to the practicalities of maintaining an army and providing for the elves that would soon be called to them from across Thedas. If he finds himself growing restless, surely it could be attributed to the banal nature of his task.

When Abelas leaves to check on his new charge, Solas is struck by a pang of jealousy. He understands why it can't be him, but understanding doesn't soothe the sting. He used to delight in his ability to navigate the traps and pitfalls of Elvhen propriety, where he'd honed his skills in subtle subversion to neatly turn the civil insults of his _ peers _ back against them. Suddenly he felt crowded by them, penned in. He had always cared in his own way, always fought to protect - it was never simple contrariness that spurred the rebel god, no matter what had been said of him then and in the millennia since - but his focus had been on tearing down. Now that he's attempting to build something he has to move more carefully. And while he's grateful to no longer be fighting his beloved, walking that knife edge between keeping her safe and keeping her from interfering, having her close presents new challenges. He stalks to his room, pours and subsequently drains a cup of wine, then paces like a wolf caged. He wants to go to her. He can't. It's too early to find her in the Fade, and he doubts his agitation will make slipping into slumber the usually simple act for the i've'an'virelan. He makes himself take a breath, forces himself to still, his hands and jaw to unclench. He retrieves a sketchbook. If she is to be raised beside him, he reasons, it should be documented as of old, as he had done with her deeds as Inquisitor. If she is to betray him… his chest clenches at the thought. _ If she is to betray me, I would have our people know she was an opponent worthy of the Dread Wolf_. He begins to draw.

* * *

Abelas watches. Observing unobserved. She's still bent at her studies. Her mouth moves silently as she tastes the shape of new words, slowly constructing the tongue of which she'd been left only fragments. Time would tell if she was truly willing to do the same for the world.

He ponders her vallaslin, their absence. When he'd met her at the Vir'abelasan he had initially been repulsed to see this child unknowingly bearing the marks of his mistress, claiming kinship with him. By the time they had parted, he had seen something of Mythal within her; and he couldn't deny that she had obtained the right to petition the Well, even if he would not wish its will upon her. When he heard that Fen'Harel had removed them, he had wondered at the point. She was still bound to Mythal, no matter what was or wasn't written on her face. It was written on her soul. Perhaps it was for _his_ vanity, the Wolf's pride was well known. Perhaps he hated the daily reminder that, for all his work, the children of fallen Elvhenan had pledged themselves as willing slaves to silent gods. He had not saved them. Perhaps it galled that the object of his love and desire was branded so - he who had never _ taken _ slaves as his fellows had, who upon rising to his station had bedded only those who had sought to use him for their own status and power. Perhaps he simply found her more beautiful this way.

She growls in frustration, having attempted to turn a page with an arm she no longer possesses. The guardian's mouth twitches his amusement. She would adapt, it had been less than a day. She is ena'sal'in'amelan, he could instruct her in using those skills to compensate for the loss. If she proves a true ally. He didn't plan to _ arm _ (another twitch, lips pull dangerously close to _a_ _smile_) an enemy agent. No, until she proved herself he would only teach her how to survive _ politically _ once the Veil was torn down. Her _ physical _ survival was up to him - it was his duty now to keep her safe unless he was required to keep them safe from _ her_.

He muses that, in a way, he finds himself standing sentinel once more over the Well of Sorrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've'an'virelan - n. Dreamer Mage, Fade Walker, Walker of the Beyond  
Ena'sal'in'amelan - n. Arcane Warrior, Knight Enchanter, lit. One Who protects victory


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night falls.

Night falls and she rubs at her eyes, realising she must have been squinting in the ever decreasing light for some time. She had been fed again, brought water and wine, but mainly she had been thoroughly engrossed in her studies. To learn more of her ancestral tongue is a _ dream_.

Butnow her heart flutters in anticipation of the realisation of another dream. She raises her hands (_hand - one hand and one stump_) to smooth her hair. She laughs in the mirror at the uselessness of the nervous gesture. She wonders if she'll be able to sleep at all when her chest feels like it could burst open from the hammering within it.

She settles herself into the bed to find her eyes growing heavy in mere moments. Her remaining fingers tangle in the thick furs above her blankets. She drifts into the Fade with her beloved's name on her lips.

* * *

Night falls and she finally lifts her head from the book it's been buried in for hours. She had been still and silent enough that he hadn't felt the need to watch her the entire time; content to work on the constantly generated reports, sifting through what required Fen'Harel's attention and what he could deal with himself. Occasionally she'd shifted or made some noise - a murmur of thanks to a silent servant, whispering to herself as she grappled with a particularly foreign addition to her knowledge of the Elvhen lexicon, a soft "oh" or surprised delight or understanding, and most often a hiss of frustration each time she had cause to remember her freshly missing limb. He'd looked up then, watched her settle back to her studies, her features ostensibly unguarded in their blend of wonder and concentration.

Now he watches her laughing at herself for her vain impulse, his attention rapt. For an instant he questions if she can see her observer, her eyes seeming to meet his own. Apprehension is plain within them, but there is also… Hope? Joy? Excitement? It's possible she knows she's surveilled and is simply putting on a show of sincerity, but he finds himself believing the spark of love shining from her in this moment.

When she is nestled in her bed, he casts a gentle sleeping charm over her. "Nydha, ara'tarlan. Vena mar'lath in sethenan."

* * *

Night falls and the fading light breaks the tenuous grasp on peace he had found in sketching. He had intended to draft ideas for frescoes, but now the pages are filled with _ her_. In his embrace, clinging to his pelt, stained with tears and blood. On her knees as the flare of his anchor overwhelms her. Standing in his halls with all the grace and dignity of the warrior queens of old, every bit a child of Mythal. Dancing at Halamshiral all those years ago. Staring down a high dragon. Caring for her mount. The first time he'd laid eyes on her, unconscious under his ministrations at Haven. Her face. Her eyes. Her smile. _ Her_.

He tenderly traces the drawings with a finger, careful not to smudge his work, even as his heart rages against his ribs like a caged beast demanding release. His need is palpable, crackling through him like his magic used to surge through his beloved near a rift. He must calm himself, bringing too much excitement into the Fade may attract unwelcome attention and he would rather their reunion not dogged by demons.

He takes to his bed and meditates until the frantic static of fear and desire are discharged from his mind, then steps swiftly into the Fade's embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nydha, ara'tarlan. Vena mar'lath in sethenan. - Goodnight, my lady. Find your lover in the land of dreams.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had surgery so, uh, let's play "which parts were written while Jen was off their face?" I guess?

Of course he would find her here. She stares up at the memory of walls covered by his work, her arms (_arms - two here_) wrapped around herself.

"Were you trying to tell me? Even then?"

"It… was an indulgence. Born of vanity and a desire for the familiar, but as my feelings grew…" He sighs. "Yes, in a way, it was a confession as much as a celebration and record. At first I simply did not believe anyone capable of seeing or understanding the deeper themes. Later I supposed it was theoretically possible but was confident enough in my camouflage that I believed you would dismiss any connections you may have made. Ir abelas, ma vhenan. Tel'harel: ir solas."

"Vin. Mar solas ena mar banafelas, ma lath_,_" she turns to face him, eyes filled with… concern? "Ma lana ghi'la su athimathe. Ma lana ma ama?" She cups his cheek, the phantom limb solid and warm in the Fade. He covers his hand in hers, turning to press a kiss into the ghost of his anchor.

"You continue to surprise me."

"You think you'd be used to that by now. I've been doing that since I woke up." She laughs softly. "No, wait, before even then apparently."

He searches her face.

"Are you not angry?"

"I was," she admits, arms folding. "After Crestwood. After Corypheus."

"And now? Knowing why? Knowing my part? My plans?"

She snorts. "I'm not so foolish as to think I know know the Dread Wolf's plans, ma lath. Your goal, perhaps…" She shrugs. "I'm… not pleased. That you lied. That I was a pawn when I could have been a partner."

"You deserved better. By the time I could see that, I felt I had no choice."

"You had-" her voice raises, before she abruptly cuts herself off with a shake of her head. "No.I don't want to do this now, Solas. Please? Another night? For now, let it be enough that we're together? I have missed you," her voice breaks, "so much. I…"

He kisses her and they're back on the balcony, reliving that moment of tender half-confessions.

"Ar lath ma, vhenan."

This time, he doesn't leave.

Her fingers find their way under his tunic, stroking at his hips. He groans softly against her mouth, followed by a quiet gasp when she bites his lip. Their kiss deepens. Hands travel higher, urging fabric upwards, he's helpless to resist. Doesn't want to resist. _ Has to resist_.

"Vhenan-"

She uses the opportunity to pull the humble apostate shirt over his head, revealing the body of a god. Hungry eyes and hands explore his torso and suddenly the Dread Wolf feels like prey. Her lips devour him, covering his jaw and neck and chest in burning kisses, returning again and again to claim his mouth. Each time she bites, the bulge in his leggings twitches, her hips pressed flush with his as he grips her hard enough to bruise, prompting predatory purrs.

"_Vhenan-_"

"Shh. Talk later. Bed now."

He finds himself guided to the bed, notes his hands are stripping her clothes from her of their own volition. _ Too fast. Can't think. Want - _ ** _need_ ** _ \- to remember… _

"This!" He gasps, all but shoving her away. "This is wrong. I can't-"

He's interrupted by her growl of frustration and vicious punch to the wall. His eyes widen.

"Vhenan?"

"Why is it that everything I want is always _ wrong _?"

"What-"

"It's not that you're not interested in sex, it's not even that you're not sexually attracted to me. You _ do _ desire me. I feel it when you hold me against you. Taste it when you kiss me. See it in your eyes before you shut it away. I thought I understood why, after today; but I know who you are, yet you still pull away. I… I don't understand how men can apparently be so _ passionate _ about me and utterly refuse to _ touch me_."

** _Men…_ **

"Ir abelas, ma vhenan'ara. I am old and foolish and never thought to find love in the arms of one who lives so fast. It is… difficult for me to remember at times that my impulses to honour the depth of my feelings for you belong to a different world."

"You're doing that thing again."

"… Thing?"

"Overly formal instead of just speaking your mind."

"Ah."

"I used to think it was discomfort. Then I thought it was deception. Now… I think it may have been both but I can't tell which is which."

"I… Elvhenan was a place of eternities. Fleeting indulgences and trysts were common but considered little more than enjoyable diversions, unimportant. As great as my desire is for you, I do not wish to trivialise what I feel. Ar lath ma. I _ love _ you. I don't want to fall into bed with you in the heat of the moment. I want to do this right. I have made so many mistakes, vhenan. With you, especially. Let me try to do this right? Let me woo you?"

"… _ Oh_."

* * *

He shows her the place in the Fade where the friend they had freed but couldn't save had once resided. Wisps cluster around them, curious and benign. She feels the stirrings of energy he'd once spoken of, notes his bittersweet smile when he confirms the strength of it has grown greatly in the years since. She blushes when he suggests that her presence may be a positive influence here.

"You said there were things you wanted to teach me. And that I might be able to research ways to perhaps… mitigate… damage…?"

"I did."

"Do you think it might help our new friend's growth if we use this place for my nocturnal studies…?"

"I think," he smiles tenderly, "that sounds very _ wise_, vhenan."

She spends the night with her head in his lap as he strokes her hair and tells her of wonders he's seen in his long life, no more hiding behind euphemisms and deflections. She muses that while there are many things she doesn't know and cannot understand, she finally knows enough to understand where _ she stands _ with her beloved - for this moment, it's enough. He thrills as he picks up the faint trace of a whisper on the edge of hearing. She smiles up at his excitement and, for now, is content.

* * *

"Our time runs short."

"Good thing we have more than just tonight."

"Indeed," he presses a soft kiss to her forehead. "Thank you for giving me this, vhenan. It is not a perfect or easy future, I still regret drawing you down the Din'anshiral. But that, despite everything, you would choose to face what comes by my side is a greater gift than you could know."

She sits up, shifting to kiss him, long and slow and loving.

"Am I wooed yet?" She teases.

"Not quite," he laughs, and kisses her nose.

She gently strokes a finger along his ear, drawing a low moan from his lips, and whispers: "A shame."

His laugh now is shaky, breathless. She answers with a mischievous grin and a peck on the cheek.

"Ar lath ma."

"Ar lath ma, vhenan."

She feels the Fade shift, knows she's waking.

"Ma fen."

* * *

She wakes, sunlight pouring through her window. She stretches luxuriously. Despite feeling perfectly rested, for a moment she considers allowing herself to simply doze, wallowing in the sense of peace that followed her from the Fade. Then she remembers the book and practically leaps from the bed to return to her studies.

* * *

He wakes, painfully hard. He throws his head back into the pillows, and groans long and low.

"She will be the death of me."

Despite all this, he hasn't stopped smiling. He rises to tend to his needs and the tasks of the day, choosing not to school his features until after her greets Abelas, enjoying a chance to irritate the sullen guardian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ir abelas, ma vhenan. Tel'harel: ir solas. - I am sorry, my heart. It's no lie: I am pride/proud.
> 
> Vin. Mar solas ena mar banafelas, ma lath. Ma lana ghi'la su athimathe. Ma lana ma ama? - True. Your pride will be your ruin, my love. Let me guide you in humility. Allow me to protect you?
> 
> Ir abelas, ma vhenan'ara. - I am sorry, my heart's desire.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, lots of life stuff plus my brain not wanting to write scenes in a linear narrative.

The first few days pass smoothly enough. 

Abelas finds little hardship in the addition to his duties. His new charge is placid enough for now and demands no special attention. Indeed he occasionally must remind himself to watch her, as she is currently it would be too easy to grow complacent. But then he has yet to truly meet with her. He must assume she will require more care when he takes a more active role, but for this period of observation her silent contentment is a welcome contrast to the Dread Wolf's newfound enthusiasm however well channelled.

Fen'Harel seems focused on his task, if more prone to the air of mischievous humour which had lead so many to underestimate him in his youth. His nights are filled with tours of the Fade and memories of Elvhenan he'd told her of before but can now share without reservation, holding back no details or measure of his power as a Dreamer unmatched since Arlathan.

Lavellan beholds each marvel with curiosity and awe. More than once, her beloved holds her as she is moved to tears of joy and sorrow at the wonders she observes and the realisation that she may learn more of their history in an hour than one of her people might learn in a lifetime. He feels guilty at first, but she insists it's how she's processing the possible fulfilment of a dream shared - but perhaps not truly believed - by every would-be Keeper and Hahren. It's easy to take her at her word here, where her excitement ripples through the Fade attracting whirling wisps which dance gleefully in the emotional eddies.

By day, she seems engaged enough by her studies; learning in more conventional ways, though the prospect is no less thrilling to the bookish former First. A pair of chess sets are delivered to her - one travel board with wooden wolves for pieces, one standard with simple pieces of shaped stone. Each morning she gets two slips of paper with their latest moves at breakfast, each evening she returns them to her attendants with her response. She knows she'll grow restless in time, but for now the thrill of learning and the reunion with her lost love is enough.

* * *

The sentinel announces his entrance and is received with a nervous smile. She picks at her clothing under his assessing gaze and it's difficult to picture her bending the Orlesian court to her will. He remembers the deference she had shown at their first meeting, sees it mirrored here but it seems a pale echo without the confidence she wore then. He has witnessed her ability in battle himself. She has faced down a would-be god creature that sundered the sky. All but seduced another to her bed. How is it she looks so small now? _ Uncertainty? Manipulation? Something else? _

He starts with the basics: checking in with her well-being, ensuring her needs are being met, filling in gaps, confirming details he already knew. Nothing taxing. It's unlikely he'd get anywhere while she's so wary, and he is more accustomed to playing the long game than the quick-lived little things that had inherited this broken sphere.

He indicates the remains of her arm.

"May I?"

She hesitates, brow furrowed ( _ Confusion? Suspicion? _ ), then offers the stump. He inspects it delicately, mindful of the sensitivity of new flesh. He feels her eyes on him as he focuses on his task.

"Um…"

"Yes?"

"Am I allowed to ask you questions?"

"How else am I to teach you?"

"Oh… But you're my interrogator?"

" _ Handler _ ." He releases her limb. "Your worth is far greater than that of a simple enemy agent."

"Mm, yes," she rolls her eyes, "Fen'Harel's caged heart."

"You would be worthy without his love."

Her eyes widen, lips part.  _ Surprise _ .

"With all you accomplished since the Breach-"

She shakes her head.

"My advisors-"

"Did their work well, but they did not and could not lead."

"The Anchor-"

"Was a powerful tool which afforded you an important role as the sole method of healing the rifts, but without your  _ will _ you would have been little more than a crucial pawn."

"Their Andraste-"

"Did not win the favour of the Dalish. Or the loyalty of a Ben-Hassrath. Or the love of Compassion. Andraste did not clothe and feed the refugees, nor stop the rising dead,"  _ or stand with the Sentinels _ \- it's true but not a conversation he is ready to have and so remains unsaid. "Their prophet's name may have called many to your banner but it was your actions, your decisions, that bid them stay rather than brand you a heretic.  _ You _ won them to your side despite their Chantry's hatred of mages and elves.  _ You _ commanded their loyalty and their esteem.  _ You _ led them into battle, led them to victory. Do not waste my time playing - or worse, believing yourself - the simpering da'len when your actions brand you a general."

His voice has shifted from remote, to dismissive, to stern. Of course she  _ is _ a child by his standards. In this wrong world inhabited by mayflies, but even insects can have their warriors and queens. Not that he truly considers her an insect; she had earned the right to petition the Well, after all. He has to admit, her lack of years and access to the true reserves of the Fade make her accomplishments  _ more _ impressive. He wonders what she could have been if she were born before the Fall, with the song unsundered and flowing through her.

"It wasn't like that. It just…" She meets his eye, her shoulders set, and he sees the woman he first met.  _ Finally _ . "I only did what needed to be done."

"Yes."

"… How do you know all this? Forgive me but you were at the temple, presumably asleep, for most of our war with Corypheus. I don't know when you came to be part of… this. But…"

"I have seen the reports. And Fen'Harel has seen fit to share relevant memories at times."

Several emotions flicker across her face, vying for dominance, before she settles on caution. He wonders if she was this expressive as Inquisitor or if she's abandoned that mask here under her lover's instruction. He's seen evidence that she's at least occasionally capable of schooling her features. Of course there's always the possibility that she's performing.

"What memories?"

"Nothing… personal. Judgements, tactical decisions. Things you would share with your spy master or commander."

"Hah! As if I could tell Leliana something she didn't already know! That woman could steal a secret from Dirthamen himself."

He quirks an eyebrow. She sighs.

"Right. The gods of my people are really real and not what we thought and also one of them is my boyfriend and it's possible we may have to fight them? That last part's unclear… I should probably try to stop referring to them so casually, yes?"

He closes his eyes and sighs heavily through his nose. It seems strange to him that having the existence of her deities confirmed should make her  _ less _ reverent - but then he had never courted one.

"Sorry. It's… an adjustment. I need more than a week to really come to terms with information that changes my entire world view, I'm funny that way."

It seems that humour is a coping mechanism, an armour she slips into reflexively when discussing...  _ what? _ Her former comrades? Her culture of scavenged tatters? And is it to shield her or them? At least she's no longer cringing before him.

He enquires about her studies and it's like pulling a switch. Gone are her wariness and hesitation, washed away in a tide of enthusiasm that seems utterly genuine. Now she swirls into action, scooping up the open tome in her arm, gesticulating with her stump as she explains how far she's gotten, her findings and frustrations, how much it means to have this opportunity. She shares her observations on how time and cultural shifts have warped the meanings and usage of certain terms. He suggests they sit as she struggles to both pace and reference the text, she flashes him a sheepish grin and asks if that means he's willing to stay and help her practice. They exchange simple phrases in the true language of the People. When he uses a word she's unfamiliar with, she looks it up. When he corrects her pronunciation, she repeats it back; when he nods a confirmation, she continues until the shape of it fits in her mouth. She is animated and expressive as she talks, so he files away each look and gesture for later comparison. Though the conversation is stilted by her limited command of the tongue, he finds himself enjoying her company as he has enjoyed her quiet presence during his observation of her. Eventually he feels the pull of his other duties and bids her farewell.

"Ma serannas, ha'hren. This has been very helpful."

He leaves not the Inquisitor, nor the timid child, but a scholar in love with her subject. The girl in the mirror.  _ A pleasure to meet you, First of Clan Lavellan. _

* * *

_ "{What did you think?}" _

_ "{You were watching.}" _

_ "{I have a curious nature. What did you _ ** _ think_ ** _ ?}" _

_ "{ … She was timid-}" _

_ "{Much has changed for her, and she has been warned that a misstep could have grave consequences. Is it so unreasonable she be nervous?}" _

_ "{You asked what I thought.}" _

_ "{Forgive me, falon. I suppose I'm nervous too. Please continue?}" _

_ "{I did not trust that shrinking child, so far removed from what one would expect from the reports and from our memories.}" _

_ "{What changed your mind?}" _

_ "{You have to ask?}" _

Solas smiles softly to himself. Even if he hadn't seen, he would have known.  _ She changes everything _ .

_ "{She does not relish force or power but knows how to stand and wield them when needed. She is strong, yes - also gentle, kind, and humble…}" _ His smile shifts, full of fondness for her and amusement at himself.  _ "{Can you see how Pride might fall?}" _

Abelas huffs but nods.

_ "{She uses humour as a shield.}" _

_ "{She can disarm with it as well.}" _

_ "{Perhaps that's true for one such as you, Trickster.}" _

He flashes the guardian a sly grin as much Pride as Wolf. It's answered with a wry twitch and an eye roll that may as well have been a smirk.

_ "{Teaching her might not be so bad…}" _

_ "{Indeed. Eager, clever, witty - as a student, I found her a pleasure. But be careful, friend,}"  _ the Dread Wolf's tone turns serious but mischief dances in his eyes, _ "{you may fall.}" _

Abelas snorts, making his opinion on the likelihood of that outcome clear, but Solas knows his beloved. Plus he's enjoying getting a rise out of his stoic second.

_ "{She is charming.}"  _ And it's true. She inspires love and loyalty in those who work closely with her. It's only a matter of time before that remote respect blossoms into genuine care and friendship.

His advisor shuffles through reports, obviously telegraphing his intense desire to be done with this conversation.  _ But…  _

_ "{She seduced her last ha'hren.}" _

_ "{Have you nothing better to do than pester me with your lovesick nonsense? Can we get to work?}" _

Fen'Harel feigns shock and dismay.

_ "{Why, falon, we  _ ** _are_ ** _ working. Your report on the status of our guest was the first item on our agenda.}"  _ He punctuates his point by tapping a sheet indicating exactly that. To his credit, the ink has even dried.  _ "{We can move on any time you feel she has been sufficiently handled.}" _

The sentinel stares blankly yet radiating disapproval. He smiles serenely back.

_ "{Moving on then.}" _

_ "{I'm glad you like her.}" _

_ "{More than I like you at current!}" _

_ "{You say that like it should be news, my friend.}" _

Abelas growls in frustration. Solas relents. They spend the rest of the day working, without further incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stand by my opinion that Solas is absolutely capable of being a Little Shit given the right opportunity. It's there at times in some of the party banter as well as flirty comments and reactions to Quizy's jokes, just usually a lot more understated. But I like to think that he and Abelas have at least crossed paths enough for him to be more comfortable being a Butt. Also he's Happy? And it's A Lot? So he's going to be Obnoxious until he settles down a bit probably?


End file.
